


can i call you tonight?

by fraldarian



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Hair-pulling, M/M, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post-Time Skip, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraldarian/pseuds/fraldarian
Summary: Sylvain hasn’t ever been good at hiding the things he wants. It seems the one thing he is good at, though, is polluting relationships, and breaking hearts, and driving rifts between him and the one he calls best friend.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 139





	can i call you tonight?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SydneyHorses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyHorses/gifts).



“ _The Hunter's Moon was bleeding red /_

_The night you left our thorny bed_

_Last night I dreamt I kissed your feet /_

_And held you on our dusty sheets /_

_I am always doing that_.”

The world feels like its on the precipice of collapsing, when Sylvain finally comes to full cognizance of what it is he’s doing. The first thing he notices is that from where he is perched, he can see the night sky through his window, and the stars are not doing their usual spellbinding dance. The Goddess must be in hiding, withdrawing each delicate finger that tethers the strings of the Milky Way.

The second thing he notices is this: There’s just enough light from the moon suspended above that he can make out the pathway leading from the upper dorms to the training grounds, just shy of his reach. And past those doors is a swordsman with a tongue quipped with the venomous deceit of a serpent and a sword just as cruelly wielded by scarred hands.

He’s pulling a blouse over himself. Draws his trousers over his thighs, ties them at the waist and tucks the shirt underneath. Pulls on boots caked with day’s old horseshit and hay, wrinkles his nose once, fleetingly, at the fading pervasive smell, and then he’s out the door. He’s sure Fraldarius will say something about them – but then again, he’s always picked apart every inch of Sylvain.

Felix wanted to meet him here. It’s been several weeks now since Rodrigue’s death at Gronder, and Fe’s become so reclusive and sharp-edged that Sylvain isn’t sure it’s just his sword he’s training anymore.

The swordsman already recognizes he’s approaching when Sylvain enters the training grounds. And the paladin knows it, because he watches the way his muscles tense, sees the familiar line of his shoulder blades press firmly together.

“Hey, Felix.” The greeting is half-hearted, lingers too long in the cold midnight breeze.

Felix doesn’t turn, doesn’t say anything except crook his neck. And then there’s amber eyes, cold like steel, and a hand resting at a loaded scabbard.

“Spar with me.”

Sylvain is so caught off-guard that there’s a rumbling chortle that bursts from his lungs, curls its tendrils into the still midnight air and lets loose a melody. There’s no depth to it, but tinged at its edges are what seem like both warmth and a sourness akin to curdled milk. When his eyes focus, he’s staring across at Felix’s face, and the only word to come to his mind is _rapacious._ His expression is so sullen and intense that Sylvain’s mind only registers at once that he is _serious_ and that Fraldarius’s idea of _talking things out_ involves a lance, a sword, and the clashing of metals. The paladin isn’t surprised. He should’ve seen it coming.

“Alright. _Alright_.” Sylvain echoes firmly when the curling of a lip signals the oncoming whirlwind of a festering retort. Despite his lukewarm attempts at smothering whatever insult is coming his way, Sylvain wants it. Somehow, Felix knows it too, and the darkening of his glare makes something in Gautier’s gut curl and pull until he’s nearly convinced its not just his own imaginings.

Sylvain hasn’t ever been good at hiding the things he wants. It seems the one thing he is good at, though, is polluting relationships, and breaking hearts, and driving rifts between him and the one he calls best friend. Because in truth, the paladin could live with the daggered looks of passersby and the disheveled anger of Ingrid and the slight downturned lips of Dimitri. Hell, he could even live with Felix’s uttered curses of _Insatiable._

He could live with the dissociating that came with every fuck. Could live with knowing he was breeding stock, that his own existence had been enough to send Miklan’s rage seething over the edge.

The one thing he could not live with was the way Felix stared at him as if he was another Imperial vagabond whose blood had tainted his blade. Could not live with the subtle downfall of his lips every time he caught a glimpse of auburn hair turning behind closed doors with the body of another. Nor could he live with knowing that the hardened stares were not the ones he had grown accustomed to, and that they lacked the sharp cruelty they once packed. Now, they were heavier. Something in Felix’s steeled body of armor had cracked, and the knowledge was worse than any punch or arrow wound to the shoulder that he had suffered beforehand.

It's enough for him to catch the lance that’s tossed nonchalantly his way. Holds it between his hands, lets his fingers run along the cold steel of its shaft, gets a feel for the lightweight weapon in his grasp. There’s an exhale of breath.

“Don’t just stand there. Fight me.”

The words are abrupt, and Sylvain has trouble fixating Felix with a steady gaze as he draws up the lance. “You got it.” That cocky grin is being plastered to his face again, and he’s nearly certain that at this point Fraldarius knows it’s fake. The swordsman has always been able to see through Sylvain.

It unnerves him.

Fraldarius doesn’t hesitate, and if it were not for Gautier’s quick reflexes he would have already been pushed back by the full weight of the slighter man. Felix is lithe, has less mass and takes up less space than Sylvain. But the paladin has trained with him for enough hours and passing days over the years spanning between them that he’s aware of the hefty punch the swordsman can throw.

“Stop holding back.” It’s not a request. It’s an order. And with Sylvain staring at the sweat drenching Felix’s brow, beading like dewdrops on crisp morning grass, he can’t find it in himself to deny.

So, he picks up his pace, slams his lance down as hard as he can against the iron sword deftly swinging between Felix’s hands. “This what you want?” He grunts, and his muscles strain as Felix pushes back up against him.

“Yeah. Now shut up.”

Felix has never been one for talking. Or sorting through whatever incensing vehemence lay underneath his thick shelling. Sylvain has always known this – has known it since Glenn Fraldarius was extirpated in mid-combat. Remembers the way Felix had locked himself away, how he’d bared his fangs and hit his father with the back of his palm. _He died like a true knight._ That’s what Rodrigue had said, was it not? There’s a similar wrath in the air now, and it sparks like flint upon steel.

Sylvain isn’t having it. “No. Felix – _Felix.”_ Sylvain’s sweltering, skin aglow with the dampening sweat plastered to his skin and hair. Fraldarius echoes his taxing stance, and his breathing is running ragged laps that match Sylvain’s sporadic heartbeat.

“What the fuck do you want?” There’s spite and venom laced in with his words, but there’s only bark, no bite. “I told you. I want to spar.”

There’s a moment of silence, where both of them are standing on opposite sides. There’s a hush, like the kind of apprehensive silence that happens in Enbarr’s Mittelfrank Opera House when the songstresses are on the precipice of the play’s climax. And suddenly, Felix’s face is cracking, and Sylvain’s heart is _breaking._

“You asked me here to talk. Not spar. What is it?”

They both know what it is.

“You don’t know?” There’s the glint of bared canines in the low moonlight. “You’re _insatiable._ Always chasing after skirts and frocks as if your life depends on it.” Felix’s blade glints, once, scarred fingers turning it carefully in his palm. He advances forward. “Don’t act like an idiot. What? Are you scared of actual intimacy? You’re always sleeping around, and yet – and _yet -”_

Yeah. Sylvain knows, and his chest is aching and his gut instincts are telling him to _run._ Because if there’s one thing a Gautier is horrible at, it’s true intimacy, and despite the mutual acknowledgement of unspoken feelings, Sylvain is _terrified._

“Yeah,” he echoes numbly. “And yet.”

There’s a clattering that echoes amongst the empty training grounds as Felix drops his weapon. He’s standing so close that Sylvain is nearly tempted to reach out, daintily, and wraps his ring finger around the loose strands that have come undone from Felix’s ponytail.

He doesn’t.

“You’re an idiot,” Fraldarius says again, less anger, less spite. If anything, his face is turned downcast, and the shadow of something akin to melancholy tinges it. The insult isn’t there, and the delivery Felix must have been expecting isn’t executed properly. “An idiot, but -”

“But what?” Sylvain imagines his knuckles are as white as the bone underneath them, judging by the way he’s gripping his lance. It hangs loosely at his hips, numbly, forgotten. He casts it aside.

Felix doesn’t continue whatever it is he was going to say, because instead he’s so close that the fine hairs at the back of Sylvain’s neck are beginning to stand on edge. And he’s falling, and falling, because the swordsman is so _close_ and so _open_ that Sylvain’s nose can pick up the scent of his sweat clinging to coats and tassels, and a nagging voice at the back of his mind wonders what it tastes of.

“You smell,” Felix murmurs instead, and his nose is upturned briefly as he pinpoints the source of the stench emanating from Sylvain’s boots. It’s enough to throw him off, enough to make Sylvain laugh again, and this time, it curls the edges of his eyes. He knew the swordsman would say something. He can read Fraldarius like a book.

He can read him like a book, and yet, Sylvain does not count on his laugh being cut short. Does not count on the way Felix’s brows draw together, does not count on the way a singular hand comes up to rest at the nape of Sylvain’s neck. Does not count on Felix’s figure drawing closer, closer, and still closer until he can feel the heat from his breath upon his own lips and – _Oh._

He’s kissing him, and kissing him, and _kissing him_ and Sylvain suddenly can’t tell if he’s been sentenced to an early grave or if Sothis herself has descended. It’s neither though, because Felix’s lips are _insistent_ and he tastes of Almyran pine needles and Sylvain is focusing on the way his scarred palms feel against soft cheeks, lets himself drown in it, plants himself against Fe as if his life depends on it.

But then Fraldarius is pulling away, and Gautier’s lips are left numb and warm and missing the ghost of a sharp-tongued mouth against his.

“ _Fe_.” The words scratch the palate of his mouth before he can really understand what’s happening. Because Felix is turning now, picking up his sword and roughly shoving it against the barracks and walking out of the training grounds as if he’s walking out of Sylvain’s life, too. And then there’s a hand pressing firmly into a lithe bicep, and Felix is swinging his head back around to look at him.

“What?” Fraldarius barks then, but there’s a scattering of rose petals across his cheeks, swallows his creamed skin whole and eats it up. It’s intoxicating, truly, and Sylvain feels his tongue grow heavy and his mouth go dry as if he’s been denied a week’s worth of fresh water.

“You can’t just – you can’t just _kiss_ me and then walk away. That’s not _fair._ ” Nothing Sylvain has ever done has been deemed fair. Nothing, especially not when he’d seen the way Felix’s eyes had lingered over his form for years now, not when he’d push it away and turn his back on the swordsman by kissing the pretty lips of another.

Especially not now, when all he wants to do is kiss Felix again and again and _again._

Fe’s face is twisting then. It’s transforming into something gruesome, his lips turned down and his brows knotted together so firmly that Sylvain is worried the wrinkle above them will become permanent. He looks like he’s fighting on some internal battlefield, and in all honesty, he probably _is._ “You do it then.”

Sylvain pauses. “What?”

“You heard me. You do it then. If it’s not fair. Or – just – say _something._ ”

His head is spinning, and there’s a roar in his ears so prominent he thinks it might just leave him devoid of sense. Sylvain has always been good with words, knows exactly how to wax poetic false terms of endearment and broken promises. He knows, has always known, and yet now he feels as if every utterance has departed from his chest. “Felix.” He’s stepping forward then, places his free hand against Fe’s other bicep. The man stiffens underneath him, and Sylvain’s heart simultaneously _cracks._ “It’s you,” he admits, “it’s _always been you._ ”

He’s kissing him again then, a little less insistent, a little more chaste, a lot more hesitant. Sylvain thinks he might die like this, here in the training grounds as if it’s another Gronder Field. The paladin can’t bring himself to mind though, not when Felix is quaking like a buck ensnared in a wicked trap and there’s the exhalation of breath against his skin that leaves him feeling scorched.

“Syl _vain_.”

Felix sounds wrecked, as if he’s a broken ship mast and a sailor that’s been forced ashore. And it makes Sylvain feel as if he’s been winded with a hit to the sternum that leaves him helpless. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to comfort past his counterfeit grins and fraudulent words. Doesn’t know how, but still he tries, and a moment later Gautier is stepping forward and engulfing Felix in broad arms.

Whether Felix knows it or not, Sylvain feels him stiffen in his hold. He peers down, can’t actually see the expression on Fe’s face, because it’s pressed flush against his chest. But in an attempt at wordless consolation he bends down, noses against silken black hair and breathes in deeply.

“Tell me again.”

So, he does. Again, and again.

Sylvain doesn’t actually know when it happens. It might have been excruciating hours, or only fleeting minutes, but there’s the hand of a pretty man stowing him away to far-off dormitory halls and the tapping of insistent boots against cobblestone. And then there’s his door frame, and boots, and a knee pressed to his thigh and lips against his and it’s _everything._

He thinks he might have distantly said Fraldarius’s name. Doesn’t know, doesn’t remember, because there’s fingers in his belt loops and teeth against his neck. He’s arching then, lets the tanned expanse of his neck become exposed, and it makes Felix downright carnivorous.

After this Felix will leave and never set gaze on him again. Wasn’t that how this worked? It seems like it, especially with Sylvain pinning a lithe body beneath him once more and watching as it sprawls flush against the mattress. There’s the recollection then of countless other excursions like this.

This is how it will go:

Sylvain will fuck him, and he might enjoy it. Felix will gather his clothes, and Gautier will have to watch as one of the only individuals he thinks he’s ever truly loved walks out. They won’t talk about it again. He’ll want to. But they won’t, because he knows Felix, knows the man who is sharpened enough to rival the finely tuned edge of a dagger. Knows he’ll want to forget it; knows he’ll be back to the training grounds at the break of dawn tomorrow and Sylvain will have to go on pretending they’re friends.

It’s not like it’s new. It’s been like that for years now.

For now, he lets himself become submerged in Fe’s kisses. Lets himself run broad hands underneath loose garments and lets the wet heat of a tongue against his send him to new highs he didn’t think possible. And then Felix is _moaning,_ and Sylvain doesn’t know what to do besides drink in the foreign sound like freshly bloomed honeysuckle upon his lips. It’s intoxicating, and so wholly new that Sylvain feels like he might crumple then and there, as if Felix has placed the tip of his sword to Gautier’s jugular.

“That’s it. I’ve got you.” Felix is squirming and arching the small of his back against him now. His shirt is undone, his ponytail no longer corporeal and there’s Sylvain’s teeth edging at his nipple. Fraldarius is whimpering, and it sounds strained, as if he’s embarrassed or reluctant to make such noises. But Sylvain relishes in it, feels the heat of arousal pooling in his gut and it only makes him tug harder.

There are hands in his hair, pulling incessantly, and Sylvain finds himself groaning open-mouthed against the crook of Felix’s neck. The other man’s busying himself with Sylvain’s shirt, and he can’t help but feel a smidge of adoration at the trained look on his face. “Off.” Felix’s voice rings out in the open air, demanding and to the point. Sylvain can’t help but abide, lets it slip from his shoulders and discards it to the growing pile beside his bed.

Felix presses forwards, ducks his head and presses a chaste kiss to Sylvain’s collarbone. It’s unwholly like Felix, so foreign and strange that Sylvain doesn’t know what to do with it. So, he presses closer, lets his knee slide up the innermost part of Felix’s thigh until it’s grinding against his groin. Instinctively Fe cants forward, looking for some kind of friction that Sylvain isn’t giving him.

“So impatient.” It’s a chaffing remark, but Sylvain catches the gleam of canines and a curled bottom lip. Fraldarius lets a rumble rise from the depths of his chest, and the paladin takes it as a sign of disagreement.

“Not impatient. You just won’t quit teasing.”

Sylvain is laughing then, and it’s genuine and soft and feels _right._ Felix must think the same, lest he ever admit it, because there’s a faint dusting of cherry wine along his cheeks and ridge of his nose that Gautier bends to kiss sloppily. Fe hums against him, lets it reverberate through Sylvain and find home beneath his sternum.

“I just like admiring you. That so much to ask?” It’s too much to say, too much to soon, and Sylvain can tell because Felix has gone still beneath him. He’s swallowing then, thick and knotted, mentally hates himself for even letting the words slip loose. But then Fe’s eyes are widening like they do when he’s surprised, and they seem a little less sunken then, a little more alive. Sylvain thinks he might kill to see that look more often.

“Admiring me, yeah?” There’s a scheming look in Felix’s sharp glare then, one that sends every ounce of blood Sylvain has left pooling to the centre of his groin. “Go on.”

“Yeah,” he echoes, lets his head dip back down to nip at the concave of Fe’s shoulder and neck. “Admiring you. Admiring how pretty you look underneath me.” His hands are dipping further then, lets curious fingers hover at the edges of Fe’s belt buckle. “Love it. Love your eyes, love your lips, love when you smile. Love when you talk about things you enjoy. Love -” Loves what? Him? Sylvain can’t say that, can’t let his most treasured secret be let loose for the wind to hear and carry over the sea to continents unknown.

Fe’s kissing him again then, slow and intoxicating and despite how refreshing and new it is, it feels like _home._ Sylvain lets himself be buried alive in it, lets his hands undo the man’s belt with deft fingers, lets himself move down to press plush lips below Felix’s navel.

“Finish your sentence.” Felix’s hands are in his hair, and he’s pausing in his reverence, lets earnest eyes peer up at the demand now ringing through his ears.

“Love-” He’s still hesitating, doesn’t know how to say it, doesn’t think he _can._ Sylvain’s never said it before and meant it, hasn’t let words that intimate slide past his lips unguarded in what can only be considered a millennium. “Love you.”

It’s a quiet admission, one so honest and open that it leaves Sylvain feeling terrified and vulnerable, as if he’s been flanked on either side of a closed battlefield and adjutants aren’t nearby. Felix is still staring down at him, still has a deep maroon spread over his face and dipping down to cover his neck and flush his chest. And then the swordsman is moving, lets himself pull away from underneath Sylvain so that he’s on his knees, bending down to run a hesitant thumb over the paladin’s stubbled jawline. It’s such a tender, heartbreaking gesture that Sylvain is left dumbfounded, feels like he’s back at the Gautier Manor and his father has just freshly told him he’s to fight at the Srengi border.

“Say it again,” Fe murmurs then, “so I know you mean it.”

There’s a quiet whine being pushed from Sylvain then, bends his head so he’s kissing Felix’s bared knees, bared thighs. “I love you.” He bites at the bunched muscle, feels the swordsman shiver. “I love you.” He’s pushing him back again, easing Felix onto his back and settles him deep into the mattress.

Felix looks like he’s about to shout, or cry, or get up and leave. It might be a combination, probably is a combination, and Sylvain’s heart is thudding so hard against his sternum that he thinks it might launch from his body.

“I love you too.”

It’s quiet, and hesitant, and Felix isn’t looking at Sylvain when he says it. But the paladin picks it up, freezes from where he’s sidled himself between Felix’s legs and looks upwards so sharply that he kinks a muscle at the back of his neck. “What?” He asks then, a little dumb, a little awed.

“Don’t make me say it again.” If Felix’s face was red before, it’s now a rich crimson, looks nearly like the outside of a freshly picked peach. But then he shifts his eyes, seems to relent because Fe is swallowing loudly. “I said I loved you too.”

Sylvain’s mouth has gone numb. He thinks his vocal cords have been plucked like harp strings now, can’t find the words to say, because he thinks if he opens his mouth even once more it’ll come out choked and garbled. So instead he bends down, lets himself nose against cream thighs and press fluttering butterfly kisses until he stops just shy of Felix’s briefs. He likes this, thinks he could die and be happy about it if it means perishing at the hands of Felix, at his thighs that he worships.

Felix is tugging him up now though, so he rises, and rises, lets chest be pulled flush against chest and pants into an open kiss. Sylvain pauses, feels lithe fingers at his buckle and then his eyes are drifting down to watch Felix tug his legs free.

“Look at you.” Fe’s voice seems brash and loud in the quiet room, but Sylvain can’t find it in himself to mind, not when he’s finally gotten the subject of his pining open and spread beneath him. “So perfect.” It’s a strange admission, one Felix doesn’t say without going warm, and Sylvain picks it up.

“Am I?” He asks, feels strange and terrified as if he’s never had sex dozens of times beforehand.

“Yeah.” And then hands are back on him, sliding down his hips and coming to dip just underneath the band of his briefs. Sylvain feels Felix hesitate, senses the question hanging thick like fog in the air. “Can I touch you? Would you be alright with that, Sylvain?”

Sylvain’s been asked this before. But never so earnest, never so open and laced with tender care. And he thinks it’s doing something to him then, thinks it’s breaking him apart at the seams and something akin to hot spears are prickling behind his eyes now. “Please, Fe. _Please._ ”

It’s the only coaxing Felix seems to need, because a moment later he’s taking his excruciating time with easing down Sylvain’s last garment. And then there’s cool air against his length, and fingers dancing along the velvet underside of his girth, and Sylvain is _whimpering._

“So good. So good, sitting there for me.” The words strike something inside Sylvain, like flint on steel, and it’s unearthing a desire so forceful and nauseating that Sylvain whines.

“Both hands, Fe.” Felix seems to oblige, lets his free hand drift up to grip firmly at Sylvain’s thick base. His other is thumbing at the crown of his shaft, swipes the first beading of pre and spreads it down the ridge of his underside. Instinctively Sylvain bucks into him, groans as soft palms drag up and down his fully flushed cock.

“Like that?” It poses as a harmless question, but Sylvain knows Felix, can tell when there’s a malicious glint to his stare and a quirk of his lips so sharp it could cut through glass. It’s intoxicating, truly, and Sylvain finds himself nodding feverishly as if it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

“Yeah. Yeah, like that, Felix. Just like that.” His lips are teasing at Fe’s jaw then, nips at it before pulling away to hook his own broad hands around Felix’s hips, teasing his index underneath the thin fabric. Felix is already at mast, and there’s a bulge there now that taunts him like an unopened gift and it takes every ounce of self-control Sylvain has to refrain from placing his lips all along its extent.

There’s an unspoken question resting suspended between them, and Felix is pausing in his work, lets his fingers drift from Sylvain’s girth to his own briefs. “Go on.” Then there’s a set of hands pushing against Sylvain’s, helping him wedge the last piece of undergarment from his body and casting it aside to be forgotten.

If Sylvain has ever once thought he’s seen it all, he now corrects himself. Because the image now being ingrained in his mind’s vault is stupefying, and all Sylvain wants to do is _worship._ Because Felix is beneath him, bared and flushed and so wholly perfect with his hair cascading over pillows like an ink spill, that Sylvain can’t do much but bend down and kiss him. And kiss him, and kiss him, until he doesn’t think his lips can possibly become anymore swollen and flushed than they already are.

He shifts down eventually, becomes eye level with Felix’s cock and presses a chaste kiss to the side of it. Felix seems to like it, because needy fingers are coming down to rest gingerly atop Sylvain’s head, and it’s all he needs to feel wanted and desired. A moment later his nose is drifting up, teases silken skin and comes to rest against the flushed head.

Sylvain’s taking Felix in his mouth then, lets his tongue press down _hard_ and sinks his head down until Felix’s abdomen is pressed flush to Sylvain. And then there’s a soft cry, and those once gentle fingers are _pulling._ He groans, lets it vibrate against a canting Fe and stills his hips by pressing a firm forearm to his navel.

And then he’s pulling off momentarily, watches as a bead of saliva connects to his lower lip, which is glazed in a faint sheen. “Tell me I’m good again.” The request must take Felix by surprise, but he’s a smart man, can see through every foil and the gears in his brain are suddenly turning.

“Keep doing what you’re doing, Syl. Just like before. You’re doing _such_ a good job.” A hand comes down to pat Sylvain’s cheek, as if he’s a dog being rewarded. “Keep it up. You’re so good for me. So good _to_ me.”

Sylvain whines pitifully, brings Felix’s cock back into his mouth and bobs until there’s a slight gag. Felix must think it’s a delicious noise though, because he’s bucking up into his throat, pushing greedily deeper and panting raggedly as if he’s just spent a whole day’s worth of training.

And then hands are easing him away.

“Sylvain. _Sylvain._ Need you.” The words are slurred, seem drunken as if Felix has just downed several glasses worth of rum. Sylvain’s obliging before his brain can even register the plea, rises up and bites hard against Fe’s collarbone.

“Anything, Fe. Anything. I’ll do whatever you want.” The terrifying thing is, it’s not a lie, and Sylvain doesn’t know whether he likes it or not. But he can’t think much about it then, because he’s already reaching over Felix to rummage around until index and thumb brush against a used vial of oil.

The cap pops off easily with a practiced swipe, and then fingers are dipping into the cool liquid and warming it between his palm. “You sure about this?”

“ _Yes._ ” Felix snaps, and Sylvain can’t help but grin as the familiar bark comes back to Fe. This is what he fell in love with, all sharp angles and even sharper words, blunt and to the point but so wholly beautiful that Sylvain can’t actually bring himself to mind it.

“You got it.” And then he’s teasing an index around Fe’s rim, watches as the man squirms desperately, and then he’s pushing in.

There’s a moan that is instantaneously ripped from his lungs. Felix isn’t far behind, albeit quieter, whimpers into his clenched fist and ruts against Sylvain. He’s hot, and tight, and Syl can feel every ridge and smooth bump of muscle moving against him as he crooks his digit and runs along him.

“More, Sylvain.” Felix doesn’t plead, it isn’t in his books, and Sylvain finds himself pausing in quiet wonder at the realization that this is the first time he’s truly heard the swordsman _crack._ It’s arousing, and so, so intoxicating that all Sylvain can do is give him what he wants and insert a second finger.

“Gods, Fe. You feel amazing.” The words come off slightly awkward, because Felix doesn’t need to be inside Sylvain’s mind to know he’s said similar words dozens of times beforehand to other men and women. But he means it, means it when all he can focus on is a tight heat enveloping him and a putty-like Felix rocking selfishly into his index and middle finger.

Sylvain thinks he adds a third finger before eventually pulling out. He’s not sure, can’t be sure, because he’s focusing on kissing Felix and pressing a tongue to his lips and drinking in the feverish groan that inadvertently escapes from the swordsman. He’s whispering sweet nothings now, lets himself sink into Fe’s neck and whisper feverish admittances of love.

He feels wanted, and loved, and cared for. It’s so foreign, so alienating in its entirety that Sylvain chokes on the feelings and emotions and spits them back up for Felix to hear. And the thing that gets them is that Felix reciprocates them, presses lips to his temple and murmurs even quieter, even more tender words.

It’s too much for Sylvain, it’s too much and so overstimulating that he’s immediately pulling away, drizzles oil along his length and levels himself so that he’s pressed flush to the ring of muscle. “Let me know if you need me to stop. I mean it, Fe.”

Felix is nodding, and then Sylvain is pushing in, and _in,_ fingers on hips turning bruising as Felix hisses into the cool night air. Sylvain thinks he’s died, and gone to the heavens above, because Fe feels so welcoming and hot and _right_ that Sylvain can’t do anything but cave in and press himself even closer to Felix.

“Sylvain. _Syl.”_ Felix is bucking up, doesn’t seem to register the pain of a first stretch, or if he does, he’s choosing to ignore it. There are sharp nails against his shoulders, groans sharply at the waxing crescents pricking themselves along his skin, drinks in the pitiful whimper Felix forces out as Sylvain finally hilts.

“I know. _I know._ ” And then a second later he’s rutting into Felix, lets his hips slide painstakingly slow until skin contacts skin and there’s the sharp echo of it. The one thing he doesn’t count on though is when his hand becomes entangled in Felix’s locks, pulls, and Felix actually _cries out._

“Sylvain – _again.”_ He’s arching sharply against Sylvain, grinds his cock against Syl’s abdomen and bares his throat to glinting canines of the paladin’s mouth. Sylvain doesn’t hesitate, yanks _hard_ and suckles along Felix’s throat until there’s blemishes becoming stark against flushed skin.

He’s still thrusting into Felix, feels the swordsman rut back with vigor, and it doesn’t take long for Sylvain to lose his sense of rhythm. Because Felix is _tight,_ and just the thought alone of him stretching Felix is arousing enough to make Sylvain pant with open lips against Fe’s cheek.

Felix must have the same track of thought though, because he’s letting himself become unburdened, slips from their tandem and grabs desperately at whatever he can find on Sylvain. “Sylvain, I need you. I _need_ you.” And then Sylvain’s broad hand is coming down, thick fingers wrapping with ease along Felix’s shaft and coaxes him into release.

The swordsman is arching now, groans through clenched teeth, and then there’s something warm and thick between them and Fe is slumping limply against the bed. His own orgasm is near, can feel it when Felix still quivers around him, muscles instinctively pulsing and sending Sylvain directly over the edge.

He comes with a choked garble, lets himself come along the expanse of Felix’s abdomen and falls to wrap a heavy arm and leg around the lithe man.

They’re panting in unison, and the bed is small, not easily meant for two full-grown adults. Felix is pressed flush against him, and Sylvain wants him to stay, wants to beg and plead for him never to leave and stay underneath the crook of his arm where Fe belongs.

Because this is where it ends. Felix is cleaning himself with a damp cloth, and Sylvain is watching with a strained expression. This is where it ends, when Felix is done tidying himself, because he’ll walk out that door across to the room beside Sylvain, and he’ll fall asleep and try to forget about how it felt to taste his lips or hear him say _I love you._

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t leave, and Sylvain is left ridged as Felix slides back under the protection of his bedsheets, and then there’s the smell of sweat and a faint lavender that he knows Felix oils his hair with. And he can’t help himself, can’t help the cracking of his heart, because a second later he lets out a _sob._

Felix must not know what’s going on, can’t possibly, but still he gathers himself and looks across at Sylvain with wide eyes.

“Sylvain?”

The paladin is shaking. Broad shoulders have become hunched, and the usual bravado he so precariously adorns himself with has left, and now he’s deflated, and looks like the husk of a dead man. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice must sound as raw as it feels, Sylvain realizes, and he can’t look at Fe directly. Can’t possibly, because he’s broken and ugly like this, with puffy skin and eyes so bloodshot he might as well have been socked in the face.

“Why are you saying sorry?” And then Felix is moving closer, presses a thigh to Sylvain’s and brings hesitant fingers to his shoulder. “You have nothing to feel sorry for.” His voice is firm, as if he’s just scolded a mischievous child, but it doesn’t carry the same punch.

“I just – I didn’t – I didn’t think anything could be like that. Feeling – feeling _wanted._ ” He sounds like he’s being asphyxiated, invisible thumbs to his windpipe and an ever-draining storage of oxygen. “And then you didn’t walk out.”

“Why would I leave you?” Felix still seems confused, but he presses even closer, lets lips trail along Sylvain’s spine and peppers kisses where he sees fit. It’s tender, so caring that Sylvain finds himself shuddering against shedding silent tears once more.

“Because that’s what happens after this. You leave, and we don’t talk about this again. We don’t mention what we said to each other, and we forget ever lying here.”

Suddenly there’s a firm grip on his chin, and Felix is looking at him as if he’s just been scorched and left to rot with his burns. “ _Don’t._ I’m not leaving. I’m not _ever_ leaving.” And then, Felix is kissing him, longer and more intimate than the others, and it feels _genuine._ “Didn’t I tell you?”

Sylvain is slack jawed, and somehow Felix is still surprising him, even after everything that’s happened tonight. Because there are hands around his head, pulling him closer to a bared chest, cradling him there and not letting go. Sylvain shivers, but he doesn’t stir, doesn’t dare to when Felix is still talking into his auburn feathers.

“I said I loved you, didn’t I?” It’s a question that Syl is meant to answer, and numbly he nods in agreement.

“Yes.”

“Then I’m not leaving you. I’m staying here.”

There’s a gentle hum in the air then. He thinks Felix might be reciting a quiet tune, something to do with drums. Doesn’t actually recall, though, and doesn’t fit it to memory. Because there are fingers carding through his hair, and lavender, and the familiar heat of another person that’s starting to feel like home to him. But he thinks Felix has always been home, has been a second place of acceptance for Sylvain since he was a young boy.

“Sleep, Sylvain. The night does not wait to pass for anyone.”

He does.

And when he awakes, he’s greeted with amber eyes and a warm sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent HC Syd and I came up with where Sylvain has a praise kink and cries after sex. This took ages to finish but! I'm actually very proud of it lmfao. You can find me on tumblr and twitter under the handle @fraldarian
> 
> Lyrics come from Blood Moon by Saint Sisters.


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